


Keys

by plaidpatterns



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:50:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaidpatterns/pseuds/plaidpatterns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They left him in a small stream of blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's only been a week since you were knocked out cold by an "accident" while out on the field. A flowerpot had just happened to come falling down on you from five stories above. Luckily, only the edge clipped you straight on, but nonetheless the piece of pottery falling at mach speed was enough to send you down and out for a bit. When you woke up, there was blood running down the front of your face and both Pickle and Ace were kneeling next to you, the tall guy checking your injury and whatnot while Ace just squinted up above like he might spot the jackass who was responsible for the accident.   
"Accident my ass," he had said after the both of them got you off the sidewalk and back to the office. But even after the three of you had done some outside searching, none of you came up with who had gone and tried to off you in such a cliché way. Really, it's like they weren't even trying to be creative.  
Regardless, after the whole incident was over (hospital trip and all), you were fine. Fit as a fiddle. Or, so you thought.   
You didn't really expect the head injury to jar up your mind at all, considering how the pot hadn't even hit you straight on. Though if it did, you'd be dead, you remind yourself. You assumed that after the cut healed up and the headaches stopped, that would be the end of it.   
"Guess not," you muse out loud, letting the disappointment carry out in the tone of voice. Your fingers are sitting stiff on top of the keys of your old standup piano. They're poised as if about to play yet you can't seem to conjure up the memories of how exactly to go about it. Your mouth screws up in a frown as you decisively attempt to strike a chord (in your memory and on the instrument). But you just end up producing an uncomfortable cacophony of sound. You try again. Nope. And again. That's definitely not it. You sigh and throw your head back, lamenting the loss of your piano abilities. So much for unwinding with a little bit of Moonlight Sonata.  
You bring down the heavy wooden cover gently over the keys, letting your hands rest on top of it as you stare out and let your mind wander. You can still remember the ways you played the songs you knew, and even some of the keys that were in them, sure. But the muscle memory, the ability to transfer all that into motion, it's gone. Poof. No where to be found. You don't own any sheet music anymore either, so relearning them isn't an option. Not that you've really got the energy to anyways.  
The melancholy feeling of realizing you've lost years of hard work and musical skill starts to weigh down on you, so you haul yourself out of your apartment and decide to go for a midnight walk. You've never been one to mull over lost things all that much. A little voice in your head pipes up and reminds you that a developed skill is a little more than just another lost trinket, but you smother it out with other thoughts. Maybe this is your window of opportunity to learn something new. Clarinet? Ehh. Guitar might be interesting. Not nearly as hardboiled. Saxophone, now there's a hardboiled instrument. You grimace at the thought of intruding into that territory, though. That's Droog's thing. You don't how nicely he'd take to you klutzing up that instrument, and you definitely don't want to find out.  
A loud series of sounds interrupts that train of thought, sawing its way through your focus and hammering straight into your eardrums. Slick, you think right away. You'd recognize that violent orchestration anywhere. The sound of him ravaging the poor instrument somehow makes you forget your loss in talent, so you let yourself lean up against the wall right beside the club's open door and shift out a cigarette from your trenchcoat pocket. As you light it, the flurry of notes leads up into a crescendo and you let the back of your head rest against the brick wall behind you. Smoke trails up in soft little swirls as Slick continues to maul the keys with his unending rage, notes disappearing quickly into the night air along with the remnants of your shortening cigarette.   
By the time the song's come to a reverberating standstill, you're on your way back to your shoddy apartment, two cigarette ends ground out onto the pavement behind you.


	2. Chapter 2

It's only a bit before four in the morning when you wake up with a jarring sensation, your eyes snapping open and an arm jerking forward as if it could catch you from the false feeling of falling. You lay there with wide eyes for a moment, staring at your fingers splayed out to the side before the remnants of a terrible hangover hit you like a baseball bat to the head. You slowly reel your arm back in with an irritated groan, instead using it to cover your eyes from what little light streams in through your small bedside window. The figure next to you stirs a bit, muttering something half between a waking sentence and sleeptalking. You let yourself peek over to him, all sharp edges and angles mangled into one dark mass of a body.   
Slick doesn't seem to notice you sliding out from under the covers, wobbling over to your small adjoined kitchen to heat yourself up a mug of cheap, bitter coffee. It tastes just as bad as usual, but it does wonders to combat the hangover kicking dents into your skull.   
You find yourself seated at the piano once more, facing the bed on the other end of the room. Slick's shifted over on his side, his good arm jammed up under his pillow and the remains of his left arm resting against his side. Faint city lights filter down and outline his resting figure like something straight out of an old cinematic film.   
A melancholy feeling starts coiling its way around your heart and squeezing tight. You set the mug atop the flat top of the piano, pivoting around so your right foot rests lightly against the rightmost pedal.   
You slip out a battered sheet of music from a gap under the right arm of the keyboard (you'd bought it last week), letting it settle on the built in stand before poising your fingers on the discolored pale keys. Your fingers only ghost though, fingertips dragging to and fro in a light dance.  
E, C#, A. Your fingers tap the surface lightly, never pressing hard enough to play a note. Your eyes are trained on the dots and lines spattered across the page like raindrops.   
Your hand shifts down to play the next series of notes, but you miss your goal and your timing is thrown off. Your hand quickly jitters to the side in an automatic reaction to play the correct note, causing your pinky finger to slam down on a key. You grimace at the sudden noise, freezing in place. A quick peek over your shoulder reaffirms that Slick's still sleeping like a log. Phew.   
You spend another stretch of time continuing your silent practice, hands moving left and right across the piano keys as a melody plays in your head. You're about to flip the page when another hand snakes out from behind you and snatches it up, loudly flipping it around.  
"The hell is this?" Slick mutters, still partly asleep. You try not to seem too flustered and reach out for the sheet music. He yanks the paper out of your reach and continues staring at it.  
"It's nothing" you answer, going for the paper again in the most casual way you can. Slick continues to be an asshole, predictably. He flips over the sheet again and scans the title.  
" 'Moonlight Sonata'. The fuck?" he says right as you pluck the music out of his hand. You grab the rest of it and promptly shove them all back into their hiding spot in the side of the piano.  
"Thought you knew that song like the back of your hand," he states with a slight hint of suspicion. You look away at your mug of coffee and feign casualness once more.  
"Jus' wanted some more practice. With the sheet music," you add nonchalantly. Slick's eyes narrow and you almost hate how easy it is for him to tell when you're lying.   
He doesn't say anything else though, instead just making his way around the bench and seating himself next to you. You shift over to the left to give him more room to sit. He reaches over and yanks out the sheet music from where you'd just stashed it away, dropping it onto the stand a second afterwards.   
His good eye squints at the black dots littered across the page, scrutinizing the notes like some sort of alien language. Suddenly, his right hand positions itself on the keys and slams out the first three notes jarringly. They're played completely off beat and both of you know it. He mutters something under his breath, trying it again but only succeeding in making the notes come out more harsh in exchange for being more on-time. Honestly, you're still surprised that Slick can read sheet music at all; he's the kind of guy who just manages to play everything by ear, mashing up whatever fits well together and somehow still succeeding in being one of the best musicians in the entire city.   
"The fuck is this?" he says, jarring you out of your train of thought. You follow where his index finger is pointing and blink.   
"That's a. You know," You gesture. Slick shoots you a look that says no, he doesn't, _don't be a shitlord._  
"A sharp. Not like the note, _A sharp_ , but just half a note up--" You tap down on C#, D#, E# all in an order to emphasize your point in a way Slick will better understand. His face screws up into a scowl.  
"Fuck, this shit just never gets any less stupidly complicated," he mutters as he keeps on playing, slamming out the melody with his right hand all while glaring holes into the paper with a narrowed eye. It sounds weirdly empty with just the melody playing though, so you take the liberty of playing the chords with your left hand. You let yourself fall into time with his erratic tempo, not really minding how different the song sounds from the other countless times you've played.   
Occasionally, a written note will dip too low or an unfamiliar sign will crop up on the sheet music. Slick insults the uselessness of sheet music some more after you explain what it translates to to him, and the two of you keep up the spontaneous duet from where you left off. All in all it sounds horrible; your soft chords are essentially getting beaten out of the air by Slick's aggressive melody. You're pretty sure the neighbors are going to give you even more withering looks than usual tomorrow morning, but you can't really bring yourself to care. You're swept up in the moment, enjoying the strangely secure feeling you get from languidly playing alongside Slick's slightly off-beat notes, enjoying how the song you'd forgotten is finally coming back to you in bits and pieces. Because somehow, Slick letting you lead him through the song line by line has by far alleviated the uncomfortable, apathetic feeling in your chest more than any other sort of distraction ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still cant seem to dodge those clipped tacky endings i always do :c


End file.
